


By The Chimney With Care

by Glitter_Bug



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Christmas, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Sex references but nothing explicit, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Supportive Harrington Family, Tiny bit of Angst, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28225686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitter_Bug/pseuds/Glitter_Bug
Summary: It's early December when Steve asks Billy about his favorite color...And Steve has form for seemingly random questions. Notdumb,neverstupid-Billy had dropped those words from his vocabulary pretty quickly-but a little incongruous until you learned how to follow the breadcrumb trail of Steve’s thoughts back to their origin, and then it would all make perfect sense.But Billy can’t quite unpick this one. As well versed as he is with the meandering pathways of Steve's mind, he can’t see how they got from John Lithgow to some kind of first day of kindergarten ice-breaker.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 14
Kudos: 129





	By The Chimney With Care

**Author's Note:**

> This was SUPPOSED to be a drabble for the #hawkinsholidays prompt on Twitter.  
> Only it kinda...got away from me!
> 
> Enjoy some soft boys and some fluffy Christmas traditions.
> 
> I TRIED to change the British spellings to American (it felt right in a fic with so many 'favourites' and 'colours', but lemme know if you spot any mistakes!

It's early December when Steve asks Billy about his favorite color. 

They're in Steve's room lying lazily on the bed, a little sweaty but entirely sated, both still enjoying the novelty of the domesticity. It’s a new development, brought about after winter had settled in properly, bringing with it the promise of snow but the reality of sleet, freezing rain and the necessity of curtailing their usual quarry meetup when fooling around on leather upholstery became almost unbearable, even with the Camaro's heating cranked up as high as it could go.

It only takes a couple of aborted seduction attempts before Steve suggests that they stay at his oft-empty house instead. It’s far from the first time he’s made the offer, but it’s the first time that Billy accepts, surprising himself with how easily he adapts to the new routine, and then surprising himself even more when he realises that he actually looks forward to the rare evenings when Steve's parents are around and he's persuaded into joining them for dinner. 

It’s more than just the food. Billy is pulled headfirst into the familiarity and the conversations; finding comfort in the way that Elena Harrington asks him about his plans and his ambitions, and then listens to his answers with genuine interest. He almost falls from his chair one night when Richard Harrington pauses during a chat about sports teams to ask Billy a question about the 49ers, and Billy notices that-from that moment on-Richard’s sporting discussions often involve at least one mention of a Californian team, and that he’ll regularly asks for Billy’s thoughts on their latest game or player acquisitions. Billy even finds himself relaxing into it, daring to interrupt Richard with a contrary opinion or make a joke at the expense at his beloved Pacers without even the slightest clench of fear. 

He doesn’t even realise when he stopped hoping for an empty house, because Billy’s favorite part comes after, when the conversation has finished and the plates are cleared away and he and Steve can head upstairs for some much anticipated time together.

 _'Time for dessert_ , _baby'_ , Steve had said the first time, placing a warm hand on Billy’s thigh under the table, and Billy had blushed right to the roots of his hair at the thought of doing it like _that_. Not parked up somewhere hidden out of the way, cramped into the backseats, but in Steve’s well lit room on freshly laundered sheets, while his parents watch Wheel of Fortune only a few rooms away.

It’s still thrilling, still holds that excitement of sneaking around, but it’s starting to feel less like a dirty little secret and more like a real relationship.

Like lovers. And Billy’s not sure he’ll ever really adjust to that part, but he appreciates it, appreciates what comes after the _dessert_ too. 

Like how he's lying with his head resting on Steve's chest, listening to the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat as Steve's hand gently cards through his hair, nails scratching just enough to send little tingles of pleasure through Billy’s spine in a way that makes him want to purr and shiver and cry and show how much he wants nothing more than to burrow himself down right into Steve’s heart, into Steve’s very soul and stay there, tucked away all safe where nothing can hurt him.

He doesn’t. But it’s a close thing.

They’re chatting about nothing in particular, waiting out the comfortable silences until the conversation picks back up naturally, often weaving from topic to topic with no clear, linear path. So it really shouldn’t be too jarring for Billy’s half-hearted ranting about _Santa Claus: The Movie_ to be halted by Steve’s interruption of, 

"Oh! Yeah, uh, what's...what's your favorite color?"

And Steve has form for seemingly random questions. Not _dumb,_ never _stupid-_ Billy had dropped those words from his vocabulary pretty quickly-but a little incongruous until you learned how to follow the breadcrumb trail of Steve’s thoughts back to their origin, and then it would all make perfect sense. 

But Billy can’t quite unpick this one. As well versed as he is with the meandering pathways of Steve's mind, he can’t see how they got from John Lithgow to some kind of first day of kindergarten ice-breaker. So Billy assumes it must be the start of a joke, a cheesy pick-up line that Steve's gonna launch into with a beautifully dorky, proud-of-himself grin, and so he answers in kind,

"Sky-blue pink with yellow fucking polka dots Harrington, I dunno. Why?"

But instead of a quip, Steve's fingers stop their petting of Billy's curls, and give a quick tug instead, insistent, the gesture matching the slight petulance that's entered his tone, "C'mon, Bill, I just wanna know. It's not a secret, right?"

And Billy knows he's right, that a favorite color isn't exactly...intimate.

Because intimate is knowing what Steve looks like first thing in the morning, when he's still half asleep and hasn't had a chance to fix his hair or even wipe the drool from his chin but he’s already smiling because Billy is the first thing he sees. It's knowing how he tastes, Billy having kissed and licked and thoroughly worshipped every divine inch of that pale skin, watching as Steve tries to hold back giggles as Billy nips at the softness on his stomach, or bucks his hips when Billy’s tongue laps over his hole. It's letting Steve hold him and wipe away his tears after he's woken up shaking from another nightmare. It’s believing him when he says that Billy’s safe now, that he’s safe there, in Steve’s bed and in his arms. That it won’t be long before they can be safe together, always. 

And he has no secrets from Steve, not anymore, not since he spilled out the reasons behind bruises and split lips and the truth of why he and Max got dragged to Hawkins. The truth of who Billy actually is. Not since Steve first pressed his lips to Billy's and told him he'd been wanting to do it for months. Not since Billy admitted he'd been wanting to do it for even longer. 

So Billy tells him.

"It...used to be blue."

Blue was an easy answer. Normal. Blue for a boy.

Blue for his Camaro and the sparkling sea and his Mom's eyes and the spaceship pattern on the quilt she'd tuck round him at night.

And blue was Steve's favorite. He'd told Billy as much, unprompted. Said it so softly just after that first kiss, when they’d finally broken apart and Steve had placed his hands on Billy’s waist and dropped a kiss onto Billy’s nose and Billy’s eyes had widened in shock. 

Blue was _safe._

"Used to be?" Steve probes gently, and Billy gives in. Last remaining pebble of a wall crumbling at that soft tone.

"Now it's brown, probably," he admits.

He knows it's not normal, that brown's no one's favorite color. Brown is dog shit and dirt and his old neighbour's clunky Ford Fairmont.

But for Billy, brown is something beautiful. When he thinks of it now, he thinks of thick waves of hair under his fingers, of a constellation of moles dipping under a waist band, of eyes first simmering with want and need and desire and then settling into the warmth of fondness and tenderness and love.

He's expecting to see confusion on Steve's face, maybe humour.

But instead, Steve just nods a couple of times.

"Brown, huh, ok, yeah. I can...I can see that."

And he places his hand back into Billy's hair, resuming those gentle, casual touches, seemingly satisfied with Billy’s answer and requiring no more from him.

Billy soon forgets that Steve ever asked.

*

It's Christmas Day when it all comes flooding back.

Billy spends the morning playing Happy Families with Neil and Susan, praising Susan’s traditional-since-last-year Christmas breakfast, putting on his best grateful face as he opens a shirt he'll never wear and a pack of smokes and actually being genuinely grateful, and somewhat shocked, when Max hands him a shoddily wrapped Aerosmith tape.

He obviously plays the game well enough that Neil gives him the go ahead to leave at one o'clock, and so Billy's pulling into the Harrington driveway at pretty much five minutes past.

And ok, he might not have stopped at all the stop signs, and there was definitely an amber light that may have been more of a red when he sped through it, but he's sure there’s a hint of Christmas magic involved there too. 

He walks straight in-the way Elena always encourages him to do-toeing off his shoes and placing his stack of presents down on the table in the hallway before heading into the sitting room to find Steve waiting by the fireplace, the ornate one with the fancy mantle, the kind of fireplace that just calls out for stockings to be hung with care.

And they are.

A row of them. All handmade. 

Two very old cable knit ones are at either end of the mantle, both with patchwork letters stitched onto them; 'E' and 'R' for the older Harringtons. Both empty, clearly hung more out of tradition than use.

There's another in the middle, navy blue with bright red Santas surrounding a large, knitted 'S'. It’s definitely not as old as the others, but it’s scruffier, well-used and well-loved and, unlike the first two, it’s actually full. 

And then there’s a fourth, hanging up right next to the others. This one is much newer, pretty much in pristine condition, and it’s just as full as Steve's. It’s made from a light brown wool, patterned with tiny white snowflakes all over and a row of snowmen on the heel and toe, interspersed with spiky yellow stars. 

And there’s a big, white letter 'B' right on the front.

Billy almost lifts up a hand to it, but he stops himself just in time.

Because it can't be what he thinks. Can't be his.

He knows by now that things made with that much love are never intended for him.

More likely that it's for some other relative who's coming to stay, Cousin Betty or Great Uncle Bernard, or maybe it was made for a long-departed pet, Bunty the bunny or Bubbles the fish or something equally inanely named, and now it’s become as much as part of the decor as the crystal ornaments on the tree or the garlands cascading down the stair rails.

But then Steve reaches over to pluck the brown stocking from its shining hook,

"C'mon, man. I wanted to wait until you got here.” he thrusts the stocking into Billy’s hands, “Present time!” 

But Billy’s frozen, staring down at the stocking in his hands, feeling the weight of the presents inside, some with their gift tags peeping over the top, each one bearing his name.

"How did you?..."

Billy's voice trails off as he runs his fingers over the soft wool, the neat stitches, the letter that's integrated into the pattern in a way that clearly took someone a lot of time and attention to detail. 

"My, uh, my grandma" Steve's reaching for his own stocking, and Billy can see the blush in his cheeks, "You can meet her soon, Mom and Dad have gone to pick her up. But, yeah, she...she, uh, makes them for all the family.”

“Oh,” Billy's aware that it's not enough, but he has no more words to express just how he’s been stunned by the implication, by the casual way Steve just threw out the fact that Billy is part of this. That some old lady that Billy has never even met cared enough about him to go to this kind of trouble, to put in this much effort, to involve him in some kind of _family_ tradition.

He wonders briefly if there's a pink stocking bearing a gaudy 'N' stashed somewhere, left up in the attic or hidden away in a memory box, but he realises that he doesn't care. Wouldn't care if it had been woven from pure gold and then encrusted with diamonds. Because his stocking is the one that had been hung so proudly, not hers. He's the one here, now, and that's what matters more.

“Does your grandma, does she, uh, does she know...?” he can’t quite say it, but Steve gets it. Billy can tell by his fond smile.

“Yeah. But I swear I...I didn’t tell her. She’s always been kind of psychic like that, and I think she could hear it when I was talking about you, but yeah Bill, she knows."

He laughs again, a little guiltily, 

"She was pretty disappointed when I didn’t know your favorite color though. Said it was the kind of thing I should know about…"

Steve looks up to gaze straight at Billy,

"About the boy I'm.. _courting,_ " Steve's smile is full of humour this time and he makes a finger quote with his one free hand, but the gesture is lost on Billy as he's already ducked his head to stare at the stocking in his hands, his thumb stroking over the initial, _his_ initial, and feeling how tightly the wool is woven together.

"And she doesn't mind? She isn’t...angry? Disgusted?" Billy's voice is quiet, barely there, and he doesn't need to look up to know that Steve's face will be crumbling at that, his mouth turning down at the corners, and his eyes flooding with the kind of sadness normally reserved for the nights when Billy turns up with a black eye or bruises on his ribs.

"No, baby," Steve's tone is gentle as he reaches out to wrap an arm around Billy's shoulders, pulling him in close and pressing his lips to Billy's forehead,

"She said I’m happier now. Brighter. That I'm happiest when I'm talking about _you_ . That you’re good for me. Because she loves me, Billy, so she's gonna love anyone who makes me happy like that. Baby, she's gonna _adore_ you."

Steve strokes a curl away from Billy's temple and replaces it with a kiss, "Just like I do." 

Billy nods, dropping his head to rest against Steve's, taking a moment to blink away his tears and to swallow past the sudden tightness in his throat. Steve's arm tightens around him, and he waits. Waits until Billy is the one moving back before he releases his grip.

"So,uh…" it comes out a little rough, but Billy pushes through, holding up his stocking in front of him and attempting a watery smile, "presents?" 

Steve grins, and Billy remembers once again why brown is his favorite color as Steve's eyes meet his and he taps his stocking against Billy's in a dorky impression of a toast,

"Presents."


End file.
